The Breath of a Soldier
by hostilecrayon
Summary: A gift fic for Sunhawk. Duo makes a journal entry.


Title: The Breath of a Soldier  
Pairing: 2+1  
Rating: PG  
Genre: Romance/Angst  
Disclaimer: Not mine. _/Cries enthusiastically/_  
Summary: A Journal Entry by Duo Maxwell  
Authors Notes:

This fic has a double purpose. It was written for a contest at ficnpic (Which is why it was rushed and isn't nearly as good as it could be!), but the idea actually came from a fic by sunhawk16, which I believe is called 'Gifts of the Heart', but I can't check because her page on the Little Piece of Gundam Wing archive is down. Weeps So, though this is for a contest, it's ACTUALLY a gift fic for sunhawk16. It has absolutely NOTHING to do with Halloween, but, um... Happy Halloween anyway! (Just need an excuse for the random gift fic. .) I read Gifts of the Heart and really wanted to see some of the journal entries from that gift of Duo's. It was really just a fleeting idea, but then when I was prompted with Spring, I had NO IDEA what to write. That's when the journal idea flitted back through my head, and I said, "Hey, I could write some gift fiction. I think I will." And so... here it is. Again, any constructive criticism and nit-picking is nice. This piece is due in just a couple days.

**The Breath of a Soldier**

**March 14, AC 195**

Dear Diary,

So I live to see yet another day. The more time that goes by, the more unbelievable it is. I figured I would have kicked the bucket by now. The only things proving to me that I really am alive are the dull pains in my chest from a set of freshly bruised ribs and the soothing sound of Heero's even breathing as he sleeps.

I guess I should count my blessings. At least I've lived long enough to see Earth during spring. It's more beautiful than I would have dared to imagine. The colonies' simulated imitation pales in comparison. The colors aren't nearly as vibrant; the cool breeze not even close to as refreshing. It's almost worth living through this hell of a war to see this; to share it with Heero, even if he doesn't seem to notice.

Heero. Now there's a confusing element thrown into this dastardly life of mine. There's just something about him that I can't explain. He's damn gorgeous. No one can deny that. But there's a lot more to it than that, and I just can't quite put my finger on it. Maybe it's just the spring air that's making things so fuzzy. He looks different somehow; the soft light of the summer sun making him almost glow. Looking at him in the pale shimmer of dawn, laying there sleeping soundly, his features aren't so sharp now; his face not tainted by that patented frown and glare combination. He exudes an innocence that is merely an illusion of the light. Cold, hard killers like us can never be innocent again.

He still isn't smiling, though. Despite all my best efforts to grin and joke with him, he won't smile for me. It makes me think I should try harder. He tries so hard to pretend he's completely dead to emotion, but sometimes I catch a fleeting glimpse of the man he would have been without the training that targeted his humanity; of what we could have been if it weren't for the relentless agony of a war we are much to young to be fighting. It's a beautiful game that I sometimes allow myself to indulge in on mornings like this.

We meet in late April, sitting near each other at the induction ceremony of a private Japanese high school. I quickly make friends with everyone in my vicinity, talking and laughing animatedly. Heero, on the other hand, sits quietly, paying careful attention to the speeches being given. I'm intrigued, as I am now, by his quiet nature and attempt to make idle banter with him as I had with the other new students. He just politely tells me to pay attention and refocus on the boring drawling coming from whoever had the floor.

Later, we find out that we're roommates, and again I try to engage him in conversation. He responds somewhat minimally, and turns to work on the homework load we had already been assigned, despite the fact that we hadn't yet attended any classes. It's when the bell in my game rings for dinner classes that I start to get a glimpse of what's underneath the Heero Yuy sleeping soundly across from me.

We head for dinner together, and the messy haired Japanese boy with the piercing blue eyes asks me about myself. He asks a lot of questions with that rich, quiet voice of his, and sensing the sincerity of his curiosity, I respond honesty, without my usual embellishments. I reciprocate each question in turn. I'm genuinely surprised to find out that he's an orphan like me. I feel very much at ease with Heero, and it appears that he feels the same way.

Then he does something I, the real Duo Maxwell, have never seen. He smiles. Not only does he smile, but he laughs. He laughs long and loud and deep. My pretend self laughs right along with him, not thinking anything of a teenage boy smiling and laughing. This part of the game is so bittersweet, to watch his lips curve upwards, a vision I have to think about to conjure, trying to get something I've never seen to look exactly how it should. I often wonder if I've ever gotten it quite right.

After our delightfully pleasant meal, we agree to head out to the black top, in the hopes of playing some basketball. Much to our misfortune, the PE supplies have already been returned to their locked closets. But the evening is so nice, the sky clear and the air crisp, that we don't return to our dorm room right away. Instead, we wander across the campus, in no real hurry to call it a night. Much too comfortable to end it so soon.

We stroll aimlessly through a field of violet flowers, some still opening in the last stretch of spring. Their scent is intoxicating, and I stop to pick one and stuff it in my braid. Heero chuckles, the beautiful imagined tones caressing my real ears, and I watch myself turn to face him.

It's like a movie playing on the backs of my eyes, and I'm always on the edge of my seat to see the next part of the revered film. The next part is not only my favorite scene, but also a recent addition. It's a guilty pleasure, but I allow myself to press forward, the climax of my little game looming ever closer.

His eyes lock with mine. Not the cold, uncaring eyes of a seasoned soldier, but soft, affectionate eyes that could melt the hearts of thousands with one glance. He reaches out his hand, carefully cupping my cool cheek with gentle, uncalloused fingers. His breathing hitches, something his careful body control would never allow in reality, and he kisses me. Soft, questioning lips brush gently across mine, curious and innocent. He lets out a shuddering breath across my cheek as I take his hand in mine, and we quietly walk back to our shared dorm, words no longer necessary.

And then my foolish game is done, my movie ends, and I'm left here alone, painfully far away from the man sleeping just a few feet from where I lay observing him. It's always painful for me, but today the pain comes with a harsh realization that I hadn't wanted to consider.

I'm in love with Heero Yuy.

I don't really know when this happened, but I have somehow fallen in love with the glimpse of the person Heero should be; the person I know is buried deep down within him; the person I know he will become if he lives through this war. I wouldn't dare hope we both make it out alive, and I'm almost certain I won't, but I do pray Heero lives that long. If only so others can see the beauty hidden so strategically within him.

Right now, however, he is not that person. He is the man of the mission, the silent soldier who knows nothing but orders and mission parameters, objectives and goals. His breathing is calm and even, controlled so perfectly even in sleep, without even a trace of the hitch and shuddering in my dream. It is the breath of a soldier, but it soothes me all the same.

My pretty little movie will never be a reality, but just knowing he's alive is enough for me. It's a damn pathetic thing to settle for, but in this war, you have to think in terms of alive and dead, not in measures of happiness.

So in closing, I've come to realize spring is entirely too nostalgic for me, bringing me memories of things that never happened. It's a damn beautiful thing, but I hate it all the same.

Until Next Time (If There Is One),

Duo Maxwell


End file.
